


Day 3: Military/Historical verse: Bound To War Part I

by allthebeautifulthings9828



Series: Destiel Smut Brigade AU Challenge [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Military, American Civil War, Civil War, Destiel Smut Brigade, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Castiel, Established Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Smut, Fluff and Smut, Forbidden Love, Gentle Dom Castiel, Historical, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt/Comfort, Injured Castiel, Light Bondage, Love, M/M, Military, Military Castiel, Military Dean, Military Kink, Military Uniforms, POV Dean Winchester, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Protective Dean Winchester, Romance, Secret Relationship, Slow Build, Slow Build Castiel/Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Smut, Sub Dean, Uniform Kink, Uniforms, Victorian, destiel au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-03
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-15 23:33:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2247552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allthebeautifulthings9828/pseuds/allthebeautifulthings9828
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Backstory: In the sticky, sultry summer of 1863, Private Dean Winchester fights and hacks his way through the swamps surrounding Vicksburg, Mississippi. War has a way of stripping great men of their brass and he doesn't recognize his brigade commander, General Castiel Novak, while on patrol and barks Winchester attitude at him. He just knows the general will have him put up on charges of insubordination, but little does he know, General Novak notices him for an entirely different purpose. Suddenly promoted to the general's aide-de-camp, the two embark on a secret relationship that opens newly promoted Major Winchester's eyes to an underground society where love is free and expression of love comes in tantalizing forms. But will Major Winchester choose to remain bound to General Novak once the war is over?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Day 3: Military/Historical verse: Bound To War Part I

_Jackson, Mississippi  
May 14, 1863_

General Grant certainly knew how to celebrate a victory.

They took Jackson, Mississippi, that very afternoon--Grant's weathered troops--and they prepared a grand party like hundreds of good men weren't lying dead around the capitol city. Major Dean Winchester sneered at the whiskey barrels crammed into a supply wagon passing by his horse on their way to the Bowman House, where he also traveled. Grant installed himself there with his staff, other generals beneath him, and their staffs, likely settling in for a long night of drinking and merriment. They hadn't even taken Vicksburg yet, which was the real objective. Rail lines remained in tact around Jackson too. In short, Dean considered it far too early for drunken revelry.

Baby reared and whinnied as a lower officer rode by at a hard gallop. Messengers never took into consideration how horses turned skittish after a fight. It did little for Dean's mood.

"Woah there, Baby," he murmured, leaning down to rub her neck. The sweet black mare didn't have the temperament for war and the sooner he got her back home to the broad Kansas prairies, the better. "How you holdin' up, hm?" He glanced back over his mount and checked the litter rigged to her in the Indian style. Of course other soldiers stared at him oddly for carrying his general's baggage that way but they never had the benefit of growing up on the prairie among nomadic people. He knew how to transport goods without straining his horseflesh too much thanks to them.

In that moment, another rider came along the dirt road whooping and patting his mouth like an Indian. Boisterous laughter followed as his spur kicked his mount into a cantor.

Dean didn't care. He could have brought up that lower ranking soldier on charges for insubordination if he wanted, but it was just too hot and they were all too fed up with the slow progress toward Vicksburg to bother. All the deserters were gone anyway, for the most part. The men left who hacked through Louisiana wilderness and swam through her swamps were all battle-tested veterans. He couldn't stomach bringing up charges who had seen the elephant like his father had in the Mexican War.

Besides, Dean had a more important task on his plate. He looked back at his Indian litter again, at the lumps under an old army blanket vaguely shaped like a valise and carpet bags. They all remained safe and in his charge.

General Castiel Novak had taken a bullet, or at least as close as a man could take a bullet without being in mortal danger. It had chilled Dean's blood to watch it happen--how close he'd come to being without his commander, to watching his Castiel die. Yet they both chose to be soldiers and to fight for the Union. Soldiers often found themselves bloody, hacked up, and killed. It was, after all, the nature of the position. But no close call ever affected him that deeply. And he'd watched hundreds, perhaps thousands of men and boys writhe in agony on the field of battle as they drew their last. It only mattered that day because it'd been _him_.

So, leaving General Novak in the care of his two other adjutants, Dean rode ahead to the Bowman House to ready a room. He'd ridden Baby to the rear and collected the general's personal baggage and then made his way to Grant's headquarters, which appeared up around the bend. Obedience was his place. Obedience gave him peace. It was all for _him_.

A five-story brick affair like every other public house in the Confederacy, the Bowman House swarmed with horses, wagons, and Union soldiers. Not a filthy rebel in sight, otherwise Dean would be compelled to project a bullet through his skull. His father didn't fight for the damn states only to have Southern trash spit on the flag and denounce their government as the rotten aggressors. Fact was each time Dean thought of a rebel, the revolver itched for action in the holster on his hip.

Fighting would go on another day--probably sooner than later. For now, he gave himself solace in caring for General Novak--for Castiel. No one had to know the general keeping that Kansas boy close as his aide-de-camp meant so much more than met the eye. Indeed, if only General Grant knew....

Dean wheeled his horse 'round into the side yard of the Bowman House. Baby turned with greater care, feeling the load strapped behind her. She whinnied at Dean again as if telling him to dismount without fear of her getting spooked and bolting away. Their bond straddled a line into the supernatural and he cared more about that black mare than most everything in his life.

Soldiers milled around the yard, watching Dean pet and talk low to Baby as he undid the Indian litter from her hindquarters. He slung Castiel's valise over one shoulder and carried a pair of stuffed carpet bags over the other arm.

"Good girl," Dean told his beautiful sleek black mare. "Stay put, Baby."

A sentinel met him at the front door as he mounted the porch steps. The youngin didn't look old enough to guard the entrance with his musket gripped in blanched white fingers but Dean remembered that kid's reputation. Though his blue woolen uniform hung off his bony youthful body, he was known to be a crack shot and as equally Christian and good as he was patriotic. Dean greeted the boy with a nod, removing his wide-brimmed blue hat and raking a hand through his sweaty hair.

The boy's body snapped to attention and he saluted. "Major."

"Evenin'," Dean replied. "Private Samandriel, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

They eyed each other for a drawn moment as if some conversation should have passed between them, yet none came.

Private Samandriel's mouth twitched in an innocent, young smile. "You don't say much, do you, Major? That's what they say 'bout you. Heard you shot the fellow that took a chunk outta General Novak's arm today. Right between the eyes. That's some brave shootin' there, Major. All due respect."

Silent and without movement, scarcely even a breath, Dean observed that bright-eyed boy for a moment. The longer he stared down Private Samandriel from his six-foot vantage, the more that poor boy began shrinking as if he realized he overstepped the bounds of protocol. Still, he never broke eye contact even if he was visibly fearful and Dean admired that in the kid. A slow, barely perceptible smile parted his lips. Part of him enjoyed the dark reputation he'd acquired since the war commenced. It gave him an edge that kept strangers and lookiloos at arm's length.

"Take care of my horse," Dean finally said in a low tone. "She needs waterin' and turnin' out to pasture."

"Yes, sir," said Private Samandriel as eagerly as if Dean had charged him with personally guarding the baby Jesus.

Pushing past the boy sentinel, Dean made his way into the Bowman House. A filthy place looked to a hasty washing with Union arrival, not that the men even noticed. They were all accustomed to living in the field anyway. Dean wondered at the Southern folk who passed through that hotel before the war and considered whether it would even remain standing at the war's conclusion. He left instructions for General Novak to be brought to a room on the second floor, not knowing his condition and having no will to make him take too many flights of stairs. If he had to eject some other officer from a second floor room, he would. Few people in the world made a difference to Dean, save General Novak and his brother, Lieutenant Sammy Winchester, presently fighting in one of General Sherman's regiments.

Dean found a room over the quieter corner of the building and set Castiel's baggage on the floor, not wanting to get road dust on his bed.

The routine set in so easily for him as it did each time they stopped somewhere civilized for a night and nobody questioned why Dean had charge of Castiel's things. An aide-de-camp enjoyed the closest confidences of his general above all others. People only questioned why a mere private was plucked from obscurity to attain that general's confidence and the rank of Major to boot. Luckily Dean never cared what people thought of him.

A pitcher of cold water placed on the washstand. The photograph of Charles, Castiel's father, dusted and placed on the far chest of drawers. A clean set of underclothes and a shirt neatly folded on the bed, ready for Castiel to change and have his bloodied clothes laundered. Important papers, including a leatherbound journal, were placed in specific positions on the writing desk between a set of windows. Dean knew the routine so thoroughly that he sank into a quiet trancelike state as he moved about the room. Doing it all the right way without a detail left to chance would please Castiel and pleasing Castiel would lead to rewards that tightened the breath in his chest just picturing them.

With everything in place, Dean took a few minutes to wash up in the communal facilities at the end of the hall. Wash water turned murky brown as he rubbed away road dirt and muck from the battlefield. A soldier always took the opportunity to wash when it came, not knowing how long life in the field would last.

By the time he got back to the room, voices caught his ear and he found General Novak arrived with his two adjutants--Captain Uriel and Captain Anderson. One stood rather stout and not very tall with dark features, while the other stood long and thin with blazing red hair. Castiel though--he took the light through each of the windows and filled his blue eyes with the power of the sun. He leaned against the bedpost and lifted those eyes as soon as Dean crossed the threshold.

"Anderson, fetch the brigade surgeon," pressed Uriel.

"No," Castiel spoke with a hand raised. "It's not necessary."

Anderson had no need of protests. "But sir--"

"--A great many brave soldiers fell taking Jackson today, Captain. I won't deprive them of good surgeons for a flesh wound when--" blue eyes flickered to Dean's face again, "--when my aide-de-camp is perfectly capable of dressing such minor wounds as I've suffered. Anderson, you are to lead a foraging company. Search the town for supplies before things are destroyed. Uriel, you are to make note of our wounded and missing. Report back in the morning."

"Yes, sir," Anderson spoke for both of them.

Nodding, Uriel jammed the hat back on his head. "Good evening, General Novak."

The moment the two adjutants shut the door behind them, Castiel's leadership pretense fell away and he sank lower against the bedpost. Dean rushed to his side without thinking and kept a tight grip around his torso, steadying his balance.

"I'm fine. I'm fine," assured Castiel, a placating hand patting the air.

Wordlessly, Dean nodded and gave him a moment to regain his strength. Then the general gave a subtle nod. It was the signal. Dean commenced undoing the belt, the holster, and the scabbard, lying each over the back of a chair.

The scarlet sash around Castiel's waist gave Dean pause. All of his self control could not contain the surge of head blasting through his body, pulsing with sensational memories straight through his groin. His wrists remembered the sensation of soft red fabric bound around them, surrendering his personal power. His eyes remembered crimson tinged darkness as it wound around his head, depriving him of all senses except touch. Indeed, a hundred memories rose to the surface as he untied the sacred item and carefully folded it over the back of another chair.

"How are you, Dean?" he asked quietly, the last of his command in the field hiding away for the night.

"Tolerable," Dean answered. He then commenced undoing each gold button of Castiel's double-breasted, knee-length, blue frock coat just as he did each night.

A dark eyebrow arched. "Only tolerable?"

"It's never easy to shoot a man when you've looked into his eyes," he admitted barely above a whisper. "I did it for you today. Yet I've done it dozens of times before and it never meant a thing. Just doing my duty. That boy, though. The one who shot at you. His eyes haunt me still, Cas. I killed him without thinking of anything except revenge for hurting you."

The general reached up and a warm hand cupped Dean's cheek. Though he never spoke of it aloud, the briefest tender touch filled his aide-de-camp with renewed strength.

One by one, buttons fell open and bits of a worn old blue checked shirt revealed like a layer closer to intimacy. He moved around Castiel to his back and peeled the frock coat from his shoulders by the lapels. A faint brown stain edged his shoulder seam and then the thick odor of blood assaulted Dean's senses. The coat dropped to the floor, though Dean didn't mean it to, but the sight of a torn sleeve and torn flesh within affected him into distraction.

Castiel craned his head around, eyes darting from the coat heaped on the floor and Dean's awful expression. He said nothing but the squinted eyes conveyed it all. Pick it up. Nothing changes. We are still we, wounded or whole.

A swift fluid stooping brought Dean to the floor and he retrieved the frock coat as Castiel straightened his posture. He folded the length of blue wool and draped it over the end of the bed. A mental note scribbled through his mind to have the coat laundered and repaired as soon as they got to a stable place. He wanted no evidence left behind of the awful day.

He came forward again and commenced removing Castiel's cravat, collar, and unbuttoning his shirt, feeling that general's icy blue eyes on his features the whole time. The eyes never spoke his thoughts to anyone, yet said everything to Dean with just a flicker of light. He didn't know what to do with that amount of trust and responsibility except tuck it away deep within his chest but not too near his heart. Far too near his heart meant risking that tender organ to a man in a bond the world thought so unnatural. So evil.

Once Dean had Castiel undressed down to his drawers, the general slid onto the bed where Dean arranged pillows against the headboard. They moved together as fluidly as one body without the need to offer verbal directions--only subtle eyes cast where Dean was meant to go.

With a wash bowl and rolls of bandages, Dean joined him on the bed.

"Wait," prompted Castiel.

Dean froze, peering expectantly at him.

"Take off your riding boots before coming into my bed, Major Winchester," he ordered.

"Oh. Right." Dean admonished himself for being careless with that detail as he worked his aching feet free of black leather boots that rose to the knees. He'd stolen them off the corpse of a Confederate cavalryman some months before and found them much better suited for guarding General Novak in the saddle.

Back in bed, Dean examined the torn meat a few inches below Castiel's shoulder. The cone shaped bullet tore straight through the outer edge of his bicep muscle around the back toward his tricep muscle. Bleeding more or less stopped in a mess of heavy clots that Dean knew better to mess with--or perhaps he knew nothing at all. Perhaps a surgeon was necessary, despite the bullet cutting straight through. He knew Castiel masked his pain as Dean washed away the dried blood from the wound and began rolling the bandage wrap around his upper arm.

"Well done," the general commented as he watched Dean tie off the bandage.

"Eh, it might not stay," Dean said.

"Dean, you must learn to take a compliment," replied Castiel.

Major Winchester, a feared and respected officer in the Army of the Tennessee, felt his face go red hot with embarrassment. The general had that effect on him whether he wanted to admit it or not. It never struck him as an emasculating perception of himself but the depth of their bond, profound enough for certain rules and games of perfect trust, wouldn't be understood by outsiders. Not even Anderson and Uriel knew how close they were.

"You saved my life today," Castiel began in his most private tone.

"I reacted without thinking, as I said," countered Dean.

The general's dark brow lifted suggestively. "Because?"

Dean knew what he wanted to hear. The words clumped in his throat every damn time like a ball trying to choke the life out of him. He swallowed at nothing, palms beginning to sweat, as Castiel's insistent blue eyes bore into his forehead.

"Say it and I'll reward you," came the simple words that packed such a hard punch.

"Because...." Dean attempted, silently cursing himself for being a coward. The only time he'd been able to say it before had been in a naked, painfully aroused condition when Castiel's blue eyes turned dark and demanding. He closed his eyes and, remembering the last time in the army tent when anyone might have heard their games, felt himself growing hard with just the memory. "....I killed for you because I love you."

"Such obedience," General Novak cooed with a hand splayed over his thigh suddenly.

Dean's eyes opened again, feeling Castiel's thumb caressing his leg through the stiff, uncomfortable wool. The general offered a salacious half-smile.

"Bring me the sash, love," came the simple order.

Those five words burst through Dean's veins, running his blood hot with anticipation. The whole of his body hardened with possibilities. And, as Castiel rolled on his side and observed him with his head resting on his folded arm, Dean noticed the evidence of his own anticipation outlined in a thick pillar through his white linen drawers.

"Go on, darlin'," urged Castiel through a thin smile. "I promised a reward, did I not? Fetch me that sash now."

General Grant wasn't the only one who knew how to celebrate victory.

**Author's Note:**

> You can read part 2 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2287661  
> You can read part 3 here: http://archiveofourown.org/works/2321558


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